Death of a Lost Boy
by Danny Barefoot
Summary: I couldn't have told you their names, the ones who died. Apart from 'slow'. Must-read for Billy Jukes and Lost Boys fans, coments urgently needed. Not makin' a copper shilling.
1. First fear

**_Author's note:_**_ All stories are true, for a given value of true. It's true that Bill Jukes was a tatooed pirate, lashed by Flint of Treasure Island fame,killedon the Jolly Roger's deck. It's true that Billy Jukes was a gypsy gunner boy, who made brilliant inventions, befriended several Lost Boys, and went the way of all characters still breathing when the credits roll; immortal obscurity. _

_This story is true as well. It draws from the former story (the book), the latter (Fox's PP&P TV series), the visuals mostly from the film, and from itself_–_Mary _is_ Wendy's mother, the major point against cannon. The setting could be 4 years before the book (Or twenty?)_. _Enjoy._

* * *

Still holding. The bag of gold Moidores, a knife that drips onto me feet. Me arm hurts like hell, don't feel broken. Long John limps over, reloading his pistol slowly. The Portuguese leaks from John's wound, and mine.

"'Twas a damn slight too near, lad."

I should tell him I was happy with it, but I can't see nothing too well. Corpses twist like frozen trapezists, sky's glaring through blood and powder. Somebody's pulling at me hand–are they hitting it as well? I do not let go of the bag.

"Lad's gone, Captain–wait till he's come back to himself." Long John, a low, dangerous voice, even from far away.

"Ships regulations, John. All treasure–'til you've earned your berth–rendered to Captain Flint." His grating from behind, as me head takes to stooping. "This look like a pirate of the _Walrus_? This witless deck-swab?" The blow rocked me; before me knife-arm struck, someone caught it. Arms and legs grabbed, hammered to the deck; I'm a tent in a gale. I killed that Dago bastard, he near killed me, I'm hanging onto this bloody gold. Somebody pushes a rag in me mouth.

There's never more than a second, stretched white; the cords swing before me eyes. Then it flashes on your back, cracks out eyes and mouth and joints–except the hand. I earned this, I won't be wrong, ain't letting go of what I've done, to these bastards.

Maybe it stopped hurting after thirty–the first shock and three deeper tears make a dead inch of flesh. But the screw in your head still gets tighter–you know you're dying, and the screw breaks, loosens. Then salt water hits your back. Worth it to not get fevered, I hope, once I come back up from the fire.

I get an hour, laid on me front down below. Long John stumps down, face shadowed. He could hardly have done anything, when me knife had gone for the Captain.

"Just let me see you leave yerself once more, Billy, you're off this ship like the plague. Six-dozen strokes! 'Tis better men owing a coffin to fifty."

"Better and fat?" I rasp. Don't bleed half as bad, being thin as a musket. John grunts; pushes over grog, and I lap it up. "You're not gonna live long, Bill-lad. Never settling at halves, nor givin' nothin' away…'spose it ain't sumat you can help."

"Mister Silver…I'm gonna talk, last chance. Then tell why the man Flint fears gives such a mind to kids." I'm losing me senses again, "Tell you about Peter Pan, the Lost Boys, Indians…and Hook."

It's true–never saw fear in the Sea-Cook's face no other time. He let me go on, though.

-0-

He was sitting above a creek, the Lost Boy, pressing his face to a tree. It felt rough like a father's chin; didn't seem a faulty notion to sink inside, grow tall with the sunlight. Trees further back were solid, spreading, wore their leaves like ermine–he didn't think he'd get on with them. Didn't know how they worked, felt an aura of unknown power about them at times, like a rat in a cathedral. At times–mostly, to a kid, they were things you could climb and pull conkers off.

"Come on, Nails/We're going to the Lagoon/Gonna sit there till a lion eats you/Weeya!"

The last was little Nibs, who'd rolled down the bank. Mary stumbled down, calling and getting her nightdress even muddier. Her clearing the boys out while she washed it had been a great excitement for the two months they'd had a mother.

Nails grinned, and followed the boys, out onto the cliffs. Pumping limbs glowed, they sweated under furs. Plunged in a bubble-cloud, the coolness a child's eternal surprise. Later, you had to make sure nearly everyone was watching, before you pounded along the rocks, jumped with limbs flailing, and a cry just louder than the preceding one. Nails looked from the water at them, momentarily annoyed–he dived to squat on a pebble carpet.

A tap on his shoulder. The misty blossom of hair, a flash of silver, and Nails grabbed a tail. The mermaid drifted back, annoyed how that game had finished already.

Nails somersaulted, twisted wildly about to mime huge excess of energy. She clicked laughter, spun in circles herself. Nails stopped, hung in the water.

He couldn't help noticing her eyes were…well, _noticeably_ blue. He was trying to find a reason this wasn't his silliest thought of the day, when the mermaid flew off. Nails kicked to the surface and gulped air, black mop hanging over his shoulders.

"…but if it had a sound, green would sound like…singing/and yellow would sound like, like, the taste of butterscotch…"

Feather and Wicket dabbed their toes off a rock, talking absently, with volume. With Nails, they were the older boys–Slightly was older than Tootles or Nibs, though to see him spouting water in the latter's face, it wasn't obvious. Tootles had started swooping low, feet first, throwing up a spray till he lost his balance. Nails issued out of the water, feeling it vaporize from his skin in the blazing sun. Tootles clung to his back as they swooped, laughed in the spray from Nails' face in the lagoon–he almost hit the shore, there was so much bliss.

Happiness was unreasoning there, an element of the soil. The mermaids called the boys down to play with them, jumping from the water. They met with the condescending good-feeling that was the best _girls_, save Mary, could hope for. Apart from Nails, who'd found that disquiet didn't need reasons either.

The mermaid was lying back in shallow water, momentarily fatigued. Nails dropped Tootles off by one of her sisters, and lowered himself closer. Why did he feel scared? All the boys, accidentally or half-accidentally, had touched mermaids very nearly all over, as had the mermaids the boys. It couldn't be wrong if he hardly had a reason for doing it…

Her eyes opened, looking not quite at him-Nails decided later humans had to look like that _sometimes_. There was no response to the terrible significance he felt, even the meaning it had, just by being whatever it was. It was still, and seemed hardly conscious.

Nails grinned like the chump he felt and backflipped, nearly squashing what little of Feather there was to squash. When they smiled, mermaids showed thin rows of dolphin teeth.

They smiled now, as Peter appeared above the Lagoon with a cry, instantly the focus, striking dramatic poses naturally as inflating his lungs. Mary jumped up from the station on a rock-the boys waved; his hair and week-old smile had the glow under the sea.

"News, lads! The Indians make ready to avenge their humiliation of last week. Before tonight, they will be on the warpath!"

Tootles immediately clutched Wicket's arm and moaned; Nibs started shouting how the House was more defensible than forest–Feather asked quick, necessary questions of Peter, while Nails and Wicket were silent. Slightly was already eviscerating the water with his penknife, boasting loudly about what a 'True Englishmen could do with these Redskins'.

Older boys were different from younger ones, Nails realised. The thought rapidly died off, for ignorance of how anybody changed at which age, whether it was the same for boys and mermaids, and the actual ages of his companions beyond simple relative terms. If Peter knew, and presumably their ages were included in 'everything except reading and writing', he'd never tell them; age was a dark warded topic.

Mary was going with Peter today; Nibs was being shouted down. Thinking about the last time, Nails actually felt quite sickky.

-0-

"My leg's twisted, I would've untwisted it if I hadn't been–"

"_Stretch, and quietly!_" Nails tried to pacify his own cramp with minimal success. The Indian squatting behind the branch-covered hollow turned for a moment, then loped after a nearby cry. Three Braves and Tiger Lily were hanging onto Wicket by his legs. Nails saw their arm muscles straining, and feet grinding the clearing as the short, square-jawed Lost Boy was beaten down.

The Indians they'd ambushed had been quickly reinforced–Nails had been grounded by a club early on. Peter had realised more were imminent, and called a retreat, a few minutes before Tootles, who'd gone off to scout in another direction, had actually arrived. Nails had pulled him into the hollow before he'd been spotted.

Three more Indians lay nursing various wounds. One of them shook his comrade, and howled something. There was a silence; all the Indians moaned the reply.

"What-is it-about?" Tootles hissed. Nails replied with a look. The Lost Boys dished out injury freely, but it was surprisingly rare for them to kill. Nails knew somehow that it needed a will they had the sense to lock up till final need.

Tiger Lily looked down at the trembling Wicket. Her even white teeth were set; dark hair stood ferocious as a mane. Tootles clung to Nails, who clutched his twanging body back without restraint. They hid from her eyes in each other's hair.

The Princess screamed in Picannian, and the Braves fought each other to secure Wicket's head. The boy made no sound. The knife lowered–you had to stab upwards, Nails recalled helplessly, draw half-way round, as if getting the peel of an orange off in one piece, then pull off the rest by the hair. Not hacking bits off Wicket first was unusual respect–there were pirates who'd survived scalping; and that thought couldn't be borne.

Nails burst out of the hollow, stumbling as he failed to take off, and charged. The remaining Braves moved quickly between them with hard expressions–Tiger Lily shone with rage, almost like Mary when someone woke her up too early–that mad, funny thought lifted Nails over their heads. Tootles burst out behind him, shrilling "For Peter!"

Lighting on a fallen branch and swinging it round, Nails managed to drive the Indians from Wicket, who bolted–a Tomahawk blow tore away the branch. Nails looked into Tiger Lily's brown-lipped snarl and realised simultaneously that she was beautiful, and about to impale his head.

Nails twisted, stuck his forearm in the path of Tiger Lily's, and from four foot up, kicked her as hard as he could in the jaw.

Tootles was noisily being forced down, losing happiness as his panic grew. Wicket rushed to help and was grappled again. Nails grimly picked out the beefiest Indian; at least Tootles had given one a black eye…

The famous crow pierced the trees; Peter Pan fell like a flying boy with a sharp sword and a suit of leaves. Sarcasm aside, nothing on that island was better than him, and within seconds the Indians had retired with their peculiar wounded dignity. Dragged along, Tiger Lily looked up blearily. Her knife had slashed his arm, Nails saw as he looked quickly away.

Peter watched them go. The happiness had poured into him that makes it impossible for children to move or think for fear of exploding.

"Don't say it, we did a little–" Tootles muttered.

"_What_ did you do?" A few seconds disbelieving silence, and Peter bursts out laughing. The rescued party, all wounded, couldn't help joining in.

"A _little_? You're all heroes of Neverland, as I–and we can lick a hundred Indians and a thousand pirates before breakfast-twice on Sundays! Come back to the House, for a feast of salted venison and sugared Bullseyes, worthy of such boys. Everyone's back there, and my, won't they be jealous! We'll tell them it all, how I…you…I…!"

You realise, it worked. Wicket's rising into the sky with a whoop, Nails and Tootles smiling at each other. They can take on a thousand pirates before breakfast, they're heroes–they're sure they can imagine what venison's supposed to taste like. Peter flew above us with perfect control, a grin you couldn't knock off with a mallet. He made the world happy, and had conceitedness to share with his friends. That's how I like to remember him.


	2. First betrayal

Nibs suddenly remembered Mary's story of the Alamo, so in the end they retired to the Underground House. Nails _wasn't_that happy, having almost convinced himself this fight would be cleaner than the last. He didn't remember the choice with regret, he just remembered.

Tinkerbelle invited some friends down for light, since the chimney was stopped. They had roots to climb, defiant speeches to make, and cannonballs that had been mere rocks to fling up the tunnels. Peter was there, the loudest laugh.

You must understand, Nails loved it. I still do. His spirit warmed his body; his head had no walls. Wicket made up a song about his washing habits; Nails hung his shorts on a net of roots, showed Tootles how to collapse them on Wicket's head as he flew up. Even when they stopped moving, and started to shiver, they made a huddle together.

"Feels pleasantly cool doesn't it?" Slightly almost shouted; Tootles miserably agreed.

Feather sent them a look of dull distain, and continued picking teeth with his much-envied Barlow knife. Nails had picked up that he'd come from a different part of the London streets than Nibs. His eyes were like club feet; somehow, they looked wrong.

They were desperate enough by day two for a Remembering. Nails was uninterested as anybody–Peter lay on his bed in a moody tangle of bronze, walling off the past with denial. Anything was bad, maybe, that would've helped to understand him.

Right now, he was watching Mary smile encouragement, as a grounded man might watch a seabird. And he didn't look happy. Why couldn't Mary say she liked him watching, instead of just flicking her hair? It wouldn't have made him happier, that's why. Wicket's umms subsided, and the Fairy light swung to Nails; the Boys leaned in, listening mercilessly.

He was frustrated with his parents. He stared insolently past at two Fairies, sitting to gossip on two mounted pistols…it hit Nails' struggling, hungry mind like a Fallen Angel.

"Me mother…she was black." Ignoring the chorus to the theme; 'yer don't say.' he started really thinking.

–0–

"It's a lock-gate, I recall the wheels distinctly…"

"Ain't 'alf small." The Nibs-Slightly glare was broken by Tootles suggesting a small lock-gate.

"Is it a metal tree?" Wicket ventured. Nails was the only boy whose imagination dwelt with mechanics. He'd got his name from it; that and hanging over a waterfall for ten minutes while Wicket and Tags held his legs.

Tags…hadn't the Pirates got him? Everyone knew you slowed down when you got older, though Nails couldn't feel it coming.

"Nibs, I need you over here!" Nibs ran to Feather, got kneed in the shin, hopped off to challenge Slightly to a cannonball-throwing. Tootles was laying out twig spoons by his imaginary angel delight, comparing its wings with Wicket's 'devil pudding'.

Nails looked up at his friends. His life right now could be sitting in a corner or adventures in a small room. He couldn't remember how many projects he'd forgotten or let fall apart before at the rumour of a new game.

But there were moods, when what seemed natural to him was lost on the others, when solitude was easier. It starts with moods.

The moment next afternoon when Nails decided he'd got the best he'd get, the Boys crowded round.

Wicket hadn't been far wrong. Nails had unscrewed the flintlocks from the unusable trophies, tied wooden 'feet' on the end, and strung them together with bits of gut and elastic. Four sticks held it up, like a gangrenous spider. Twiddling the notched gold piece at the top set off one trigger and straightened the other out, producing maybe four jerky steps.

The enthusiasm of the reaction can be imagined; Nails was summarily made Best Inventor in Neverland, Tootles Second Best, as donator of elastic boot-sides. Mary kissed them both; looking at Tootles, Nails was grateful he couldn't blush. It didn't feel good either; like she'd thought he was something else, and he'd tricked her.

Looking at the thing it seemed disappointing. Not worth time that had so many uses–but why did he keep thinking of the spider, not something better he could've done with two days? In seemed worth anything, even as legs fell off.

–0–

Confused thought was shovelled aside, as Peter floated into the group. Silence, as he turned the wheel. Nails twitched as it came away; Peter replaced it with a snort, twiddled again.

The spider took a few astonishing steps, and surrendered to the inevitable. Peter instantly rewound–it stepped once, and jammed.

"Does it do anything else?"

"Goes backwards, if you twist bits."

"Most of your inventions do something useful!"

"The guns weren't doing anything hung on the wall."

"Don't be stupid! They were showing that we're better than the pirates." Only Slightly cheered. Nails was about to say that Peter was being dense; what came out was perhaps the only thing less wise;

"Bet you couldn't make anything better."

Milk-teeth shone; "_I_ _couldn't_? Nails, you've got cabin fever! Everyone will invent something–Mary doesn't have to. And since the Stumbler used all the junk down here, we will reclaim the island this hour!"

No other boys liked invention, but none would refuse a fight. And when you saw how Peter wanted to do something, immediately it became the best thing in the world you could do.

By reason of surprise, the battle was short. Tiger Lily went for Wicket; but as Nails passed her head she turned like a snake and hacked. Nails stooped; a few minutes later, he was breathing hard on the grass. Lily had an enigmatic look as she vanished. Nails rose into Peter's grin, and ran with the Boys to the familiar, new-conquered jungle.

After a few raids for material on the ship, ambushes were set with muskets. Hasty ones a rhino could see, as Feather remarked. "Poor sods," he added, grinning, as a dark, shiny-handed shape tore into a shamefaced party behind them.

"Curs and slaves," Slightly piped up in response. "Surely, we are the only free people in Neverland."

Nails caught a spray of red below; he decided Lost Boys had more fun, whether free or not.

–0–

The next day Slightly was rooting through an immense pile of junk, occasionally trying to twist two items together, then throwing them down in a bigger sulk than before. Nails had tried telling him to lay off, and sat in a similar state. Tootles was stringing a bow–he was a good archer, which didn't mean it was a good bow. Eventually, Slightly bawled at Nails what the blazes was he miserable about? He was bally well going to win, wasn't he?

"I saw Peter's thing." Heads turn.

"Peter showed you?"

"Watched, till Tink saw me. Didn't see me, he was so…caught-up."

"What was it?"

"I don't know, it was too…complicated." Nails eyes leaked tears like steam. "He's never even thought about making stuff before!"

"Peter can do anything he wants." Slightly confided, "He's an elf, doncherknow." Tootles put an arm round Nails' shoulder and rubbed.

Nails turned away ashamed of crying, of losing, of being ashamed of losing. Peter's deft hands and absorbed face hung on his eyelids–he didn't understand it, again. Jealousy? Try being jealous of eagles.

"Make something."

Nails shook his head. Slightly and Tootles moved away, Nails _couldn't _ask them back.

–0–

Next day, Hook sent a party into the jungle–the Boys couldn't resist leading them on with echoes and thrown stones. Later on they tried to fly up the waterfall; that was a well-regarded game. Nails stayed on the bank.

"Are we gonna judge these inventions sometime?" Feather called to Peter. Nails guessed he'd built some kind of trap. They called again; Peter fell gasping into the pool.

"Sometime."

After that, they became missionaries, preaching to Indians about the necessity of washing the hands (as useless a subject as could be contrived), so earnestly, not an arrow was exchanged. To Indians, madmen are holy, and the Lost Boys were mad on their over-boiling minds and the motorised kaleidoscope of sense.

Nails wanted it no less, enjoyed himself hugely. Only there was time, now. He was aware of the day passing on when liking to make things would shown to count nothing.

Presently, he dropped into the House. He wanted someone to watch and see his misery, to be with somebody and alone; he stayed where he was. Then it came on him to sneak a look a Peter's invention, while it wasn't an instrument of shame, still a beautiful thing. He moved to Peter's curtain, and slowly drew it aside.

–0–

Peter thought a moment. "I knew that. Something twisted the wrong way."

"Couldn't you put it back together?" Nails had only tried cautiously.

"Why? It's a foolish broken toy. I'd probably have smashed it if it hadn't broken itself."

"You don't mean that!"

"I say what I mean." There was irony there somewhere, the suggestion of a joke, a lie. I hope truly there was.

"Everyone wants to see it." Nails appealed to the showman.

"_I_ don't want to show it."

That was Peter all over–never a lever Nails could grasp, nothing he said simple or straight. Nails didn't think him an elf; I think he was just a boy, who threw all himself in front, moved with the world, like an Indian with the forest. Never really aware of what he did–that was why he was good. With the worst half of that idea pushing in, boys around him asking if _he'd_ broken the invention, Nails felt as far out of rhythm as Peter was in. The waterfall pounding his skull.

The Boys moved away. Mary moved to Nails, and felt his forehead. "It must have been a shock."

"Shock that it's over."

"Peter will come back to it sometime."

Nails put his hand on Mary's; it moved less than a branch. Touching wasalright–he was just her son.

"Mary."

"I'm sorry?"

"She was our mother. She went and you came. D'you think one day Peter's gonna get tired of you, you'll get broken?"

Mary moved back, shocked, angry, but not scared. Nails ran from what he'd done–they were going back to the house to get bows.

While the other boys chattered about Peter and Nails exchanged glances briefly, and moved to their pallets. Peter turned back in the air, the same moment Nails cried out. He brandished a fistful of shards.

"You smashed it!" Peter looked bemused as Wicket, Feather and Slightly held Nails back. Tink fluttering angrily, ready to dive down Nails' throat.

"He's been with us all the time!" Tootles wailed. But Nails knew any of them could've slipped off in the day.

"Someone's smashed your Stumbler? On purpose?" Nails jerked his head, "Would any boy do this thing?" No particular guilty sign in the nervous faces. "Indian or pirate, gnome or sprite, we will pursue whoever did this–"

Nails sank with his hands blotting out the cheers, shoulders hunched against the backslaps. It became apparent he was speaking;

"…ould like to find out myself. I'm going on my own."

"And don't return until you find him." Said with a smile–Peter expected nothing else. The Boys looked confused, but generally content. Feather was scratching with exceptional concentration, Tootles fighting sobs. Nails could hardly look–they couldn't understand, how much he'd stretched out to be hit by his first betrayal.

Mary looked scared now–of course, mothers understood everything. That was worse, she hadn't a right, she'd know it was wrong before he did and pull him back. Nails dodged her, flew for a tunnel. The unbroken spider was his happy thought as he burst into the gloom of evening.


End file.
